


I'll Remember The Name

by KikiTwinTai2



Category: Alexander Trilogy - Mary Renault, Fate/Apocrypha, Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Character Study, Crossover, Fluff, Gen, Historical References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25314364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KikiTwinTai2/pseuds/KikiTwinTai2
Summary: Alexander challenges his hero to a race. Achilles indulges him, and it brings up memories for them all. Fate-centric characterisation, but can be read fandom-blind regardless.
Kudos: 23





	I'll Remember The Name

**Author's Note:**

> My first Fate fic! This happened because I read TSOA a few months ago and now I'm totally obsessed with it, so watching Apocrypha was a real treat. Add the Alexander Trilogy into the mix and the idea hit me and wouldn't let go. As the summary says, you don't need to have read either of them, but they're utterly worth a read.
> 
> Regardless of what fandom you come from, I hope you enjoy it, and it would be great to hear what you think! Thanks for reading!

Alexander stood at the edge of the arena, staring in wonder at the two men fighting in the centre. Their mentor stood to one side, his human torso strong and elegant while his centaur’s body occasionally shifted restlessly.

“Again.”

At his order, the men readied themselves for battle again, shifting in the sand into starting positions. The scuffing of their sandalled feet sent puffs of dust into the air, but neither so much as blinked, eyes levelled single-mindedly at each other.

“Begin.”

Hack, slash, parry. The men circled around one another warily, each waiting for an opportunity to strike.

A dash, feinting left, and the other blocked it easily, knocking the spear away effortlessly, almost lazily.

Was it a battle, or merely a game to them?

They traded easy blows for a few hits, each getting the measure of the other, before the taller suddenly hit forward, harshly, and launched a flurry of blows.

The other blocked it, and the battle began in earnest.

The men moved so fast that their figures could barely be seen, only the strong sun glinting off their armour and making the taller’s green-blonde hair shine.

Alexander leaned forward on the fence he was balanced on, trying to get a better look.

“Do you wish to fight with them, boy?”

A hand at his back stopped him from tumbling backwards in shock, and he felt the rumblings of the man’s laughter as he set him back on his feet.

“Careful, boy,” he said needlessly.

His huge figure cut across the sun as Alexander looked up at him.

Iskandar’s genial face smiled down at him, staring at him for a long moment before looking at the men still fighting in the arena.

“ _Aristos Achaion_ ,” he murmured. A sad smile caught his lips, before he seemed to shake away whatever thought he had, and looked down at Alexander again.

“Do you wish to fight with them?” he asked again.

Alexander shook his head. “I’d only get in their way,” he answered. “I just like watching them. They’re so strong.”

He looked up at Iskander critically, squinting and raising a hand to shield his eyes as he did so.

“ _You_ could fight them,” he said. “I bet you could win, if you really tried. Or you could have a chariot race, instead.”

His eyes lit up as an idea occurred to him. “Or, we could race our horses! I bet even Balios and Xanthos couldn’t win against Bucephalus.”

Iskandar let out his booming laugh at the boy’s confident nod.

“Is that so?”

Alexander squinted up at him again. “Of course he would,” he said, slightly affronted. “He’s _our_ horse.”

Iskandar had to laugh again at that, and reached down to ruffle the boy’s hair, a shade lighter than his own.

Had it darkened as he aged, he wondered, or was it just his youthfulness shining through?

“Well, go and suggest it to him, then,” he said.

“When they’ve finished fighting,” Alexander decided. “Look, Achilles is going to win again.”

Indeed, he was. Just as their history played out, the green-haired Servant leapt up, letting out a fierce yell as he threw his spear directly at the other.

Unlike their myth, Hektor managed to dodge at the last moment, but not before the spear grazed his side. Here in Chaldea, no Servant could inflict mortal wounds on another, but it would have been a killing blow, and so their spears dissolved into golden sparks.

Satisfied, the demigod stood down, stepping back and holding out a hand to Hektor, who took it with a wry smile.

“One day I will win, Aristos Achaion,” he said.

Achilles laughed. “One day,” he agreed. “When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, that is.” His smile showed he was teasing. The glint of his white teeth showed that he was not.

“Achilles, that is enough. Be civil.”

At Chiron’s chiding, Achilles flinched. “Yes, teacher.”

The centaur walked over to them stately, looking them over critically.

“Your technique is good, both of you,” he pronounced seriously, before breaking into a gentle smile.

“I am proud of you both. Now, I think someone would like to speak to you.”

He turned slightly, waving to where Iskandar and Alexander stood.

The boy beamed, setting his feet on the fence to climb over and jump down, then sprinted across the field towards them, his red braid flying out behind him.

“Prince Alexander,” they greeted him.

“Prince Achilles, Prince Hektor,” he greeted in return, breathless with adoration.

“You got a question for us?” Achilles asked.

Alexander nodded. Taking a deep breath, he said challengingly, “I would like to race against you, please. I have been training with Bucephalus, and I would like to put him against your horses.”

Achilles blinked in surprise. “A horse race?”

Alexander nodded. “Riding, or chariot. You can choose,” he added magnanimously.

Achilles glanced towards Chiron, who simply smiled and shrugged.

He looked down at the boy again, seeing his determined gaze and holding for a moment, until the hopeful expression began to waver.

“Alright, then. A chariot race. You know how to hold the reins, I assume?”

Alexander’s face lit up, beaming at him. “Of course. Thank you very much, Prince Achilles!”

Achilles couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re welcome. I warn you, though, I won’t go easy on you just because you’re a kid.”

Alexander frowned at that. “I’m a Servant, the same as you,” he replied. His posture stiffened into a regal stance.

“Your divinity means nothing here. I am just as much a legend as you,” he pronounced. It would have been arrogant from any other child, but instead Achilles recognised the challenge in his voice, from one prince to another.

The silence stretched for a long moment as the two Servants stared at one another.

Just as Chiron was about to intervene, Alexander suddenly grinned at him, breaking the tension sharply. “I was only kidding. But I won’t go easy on you either! Now I’m going to go and tell Bucephalus, so he can get ready!”

He turned round and ran off towards the entrance to the stables, turning back briefly to wave at them before running out of sight.

Iskandar strolled towards them leisurely.

“Apologies for the boy,” he said in lieu of greeting. “That was a good fight just then.”

Achilles waved a hand dismissively. “We were all young once,” he said. Glancing at Iskandar, he added, “and I’d say he grew up well, anyway.”

Iskandar halted a moment, blinking in surprise, before bursting into laughter. “Well, that’s a fine compliment, indeed!”

His face sobered somewhat. “Though, sometimes I do look at him and wonder just what happened,” he mused.

A sad sort of silence fell over them, before Achilles clapped him on the shoulder, shaking them out of it.

“As do we all,” he said. “War changes all men. But here, the war is over, and we can make merry! Come and have a drink with us!”

Iskandar smiled, nodding. “I won’t say no to that. Lead the way!”

* * *

Back inside Chaldea, they made their way to the canteen, where Alexander had evidently returned from the stables and was regaling anyone who would listen with his news.

The victim this time was Waver, who bore the boy’s enthusiasm with the stoic endurance of a teacher, nodding occasionally and interjecting noncommittal comments when necessary.

He looked up when the men entered, a flash of something like relief on his face.

“Ah, Waver! The boy found you, I see,” Iskandar strode over to them, taking a seat on the plastic chairs of the canteen only slightly hesitantly.

He was _fairly_ certain the furniture of Chaldea was strong enough to deal with the weight of even the strongest servants, but he had had far too many close calls with the flimsy plastic of the outside world, and the stinging rebukes from the man in front of him after each one had made him learn his lesson.

With Iskandar there, Alexander seemed happy to relinquish his seat to allow them privacy. Looking around, he caught sight of Ko-Gil sitting at another table along with Andersen and the other child-like servants, and ran over to them happily, leaving the men alone.

Lord El-Melloi II gave his former Servant a long stare.

“Did you put him up to this?” he asked after a moment.

Iskandar shook his head. “No. It’s his idea,” he replied. “I see no harm in it. Achilles won’t go easy on him simply because he’s a child. Gilgamesh does the same with his younger self.”

“Gilgamesh is an ass with no sense of decency to any human beings, children or otherwise,” Waver argued.

Even now, after so many years had passed, he still couldn’t find in himself to think anything other than hatred at the sight of the man who had taken everything from him, even despite Iskandar’s solid presence in front of him.

Iskandar knew it too, and sighed deeply. “The war is over, Waver,” he said. “I am here, I am alive, and so is he. I have let bygones be bygones, and it’s time you did too. What happens in war, however painful, must eventually be let go.”

“Well, I don’t want to,” Waver said snarkily. He leant back, wishing he could have a cigar. Unfortunately, neither Ritsuka nor Gudao had accepted the logic that Heroic Spirits were incapable of succumbing to lung cancer, and had also fiercely objected to the smell. If he _had_ to smoke, they compromised, he could do it in his own rooms and _not_ in the cafeteria.

His only comfort was that that rule extended to _all_ servants, with regards to anything they smoked, whether nicotine or other substances.

The thought made his eyes stray to where the King of Heroes sat, shed of his golden armour and dressed in his usual white shirt and black pants.

He was oblivious to their conversation, his eyes focused entirely on the Servant sitting across from him, whose green hair flew around them as they talked, gesturing wildly.

Even from here, the devotion on Gilgamesh’s face was obvious. It was not the possessive, desiring look he levelled at Artoria, or the indolent arrogance granted to everyone else, even Ritsuka and Gudao. It was a soft, gentle look, one that he only showed around Enkidu and no-one else.

Whatever Waver was going to counter with was interrupted by the rest of the Greeks. Achilles set three mugs of beer in front of them.

He nodded a greeting to Waver, who returned it silently.

He never knew quite how to act around them. As a boy, he had read both the Iliad and Odyssey over and over, in translation at first, and then in Greek and Latin. He had pored over the descriptions of blood and battle, filling his dreams with the sounds of war.

Of course, being a young boy with a healthy imagination, he had also pored over the descriptions of _other_ kinds, of the things he wished he could have for himself, but that he kept hidden. He was barely tolerated at the College as it was; he didn’t need to give anyone any more ammunition.

It hadn’t been his plan to summon Iskandar, but seeing the man in the flesh had brought the past to life. The man had been known even in his own lifetime as a legend, conquering the world until his too-young death.

Standing in front of him in the woods that night, Waver had hardly been able to believe his luck. Iskandar hadn’t exactly appeared as the man of his dreams, but with a living legend in front of him, he wasn’t going to complain.

The Grail War had seemed at times to be nothing but one long dream, if one filled with rather more blood and gore than he wished, but for the first time in his life he had felt _powerful_ , needed by someone far stronger than him, and even Kayneth’s rage at discovering his theft just made it all the sweeter.

Until it had all come to an abrupt, ignominious halt at the end of the Golden King’s sword, just one of the myriads he had in his treasury. Gilgamesh probably hadn’t even had a name for it, likely never knowing or caring if he’d even used it before, or had since. That had hurt the most, he thought, his sheer uncaring _callousness_ of it.

Waver had been spared, if only because of his promise to Iskandar, and with the grief and hurt of failure weighing him down, he had returned to England. Kayneth at least was dead, leaving his research and family name behind, and so Waver took up the mantle, settling into the role of student, then teacher, trying to build a life away from Fuyuki.

Waking up in this strange place had _not_ been the plan. He had listened to the doctor, Romani, as he explained what had happened.

It didn’t make much sense. Humans of legend becoming Heroic Spirits, that he understood. But his own situation, a human bonded (possessed?) by another, less so. He wasn’t the only one, he learned. His former student, the Tohsaka heir, had suffered the same fate, although from what he could tell the girl didn’t seem to be particularly troubled by it. The Goddesses who used her body seemed much the same as her own personality, and her quarrelling with Gilgamesh was the same regardless. One of their teachers had joined them as well, though the woman’s enthusiasm when wielding the strange paw-shaped bludgeon meant that he generally tended to stay as far away from her as possible.

Besides, meso-American history had never been entirely his forte. Far too much sacrifice for his tastes, and he preferred to keep his heart _inside_ his ribcage, thank you very much.

Thinking about it, he really didn’t have much contact with any of the other Servants or Masters from his own Grail War. Saber and Beserker stayed mainly with their fellow knights, and had been joined by Lancer and the rest of the Irish heroes, in what Mordred had apparently decided to call the Brit Squad. It had probably been Merlin’s idea, as most of Chaldea’s bad ideas were.

In fact, most of them tended to stay within their own national groups, he mused. Perhaps it was the safety and comfort of familiarity in a place and time wholly unfamiliar to them all, or simply the ease in language. While Chaldea had some form of universal translator, the sheer number of Servants and languages seemed to stretch the already-pressured systems, and had led to so many mistakes that both Romani and DaVinci had decided it was easier to turn it off during down times like this, and let those Servants with multi-lingualism translate for their fellows instead. It worked so far, though knowing DaVinci she would eventually find a way to repair it, if only for the satisfaction of having done it.

“Why so glum, boy? Drink up!”

Iskandar’s booming voice shook Waver out of his thoughts, and he looked down to see the tankard in front of him.

He took a sip almost mindlessly, losing himself in the steady process of getting drunk. He couldn’t compete with the other Greeks, of course, but the buzz of alcohol working its way through his veins was good enough to drown out the rest of the Servants.

The downside was that he would sooner or later finding himself craving a cigar again, and he was in no particular mood to move.

Time passed in a haze of laughter and conversation, to which he joined in occasionally. Iskandar and Achilles were deeply invested in a heated debate about tactics, which Waver couldn’t offer much insight into. He was a good tactician, something which Iskandar had praised him for, but the merits of cavalry vs hoplites was not something he had experience of.

His gaze wandered around the rest of the room, idly noting at one point when Ritsuka and Gudao started to usher the more childlike Servants away, with Jack, Alice and Bunyan clamouring for stories in their high, piping voices.

He wondered if Anderson let them read his, or if, like many authors, he couldn’t stand hearing them read aloud. Personally, he hadn’t liked them much as a child, he remembered, and he himself certainly hated reading his own work over. Sadly, academia required endless amounts of it, and after 10 years he had got heartily sick of it.

One good thing about Chaldea, he supposed, was the lack of essays. That alone almost made fighting Singularities worth it.

At some point he must have nodded off, as he woke up to Iskandar laying him down in their room and drawing the sheet over him.

“Go to sleep, boy,” he heard the low rumble.

He was tired enough, or maybe it was the alcohol making him nostalgic, that for once he didn’t rebuke the nickname, and fell asleep.

* * *

The contest had been set for three days hence, and Chaldea was buzzing about it. Contests between Servants were hardly rare, but they always attracted attention, from both the Servant’s own national groups and those eager to see a different fighting style.

A child-like Servant challenging an adult, though, that was rare. Jack, Alice and Bunyan were quite happy to revert to the ages they appeared, and tended to stick close to ‘mommy and daddy’ (which always made Ritsuka and Gudao blush fiercely, and turn Mash’s face as close to anger as she ever got), while the others seemed to be relatively independent and only turned to the adults when necessary.

Achilles had been the recipient of numerous challenges when he was first summoned, being one of the heroes whose legend and reputation preceded him to the point that most of them wanted the chance to go against him. After he won them all easily, most Servants had got the message, and now he mainly trained with Chiron, Hektor and the other Greeks.

He was aware of Alexander’s hero-worship of him, with the knowledge of the modern world implanted in him on his summoning, and while he hadn’t exactly done anything to dissuade the boy, he hadn’t gone out of his way to cross paths with him either.

Iskandar was different, being older and wiser enough, and with his own share of both won and failed battles, to know that despite his divinity, Achilles was a man like any other with faults and flaws.

All challenges had to be agreed on by Ritsuka and Gudao, as their Masters, who would pick a time and date when neither Servant was needed for battle and could spare time to recover afterwards.

Romani was, as always, drafted in to make sure no permanent damage was done, with DaVinci providing commentary in her over-eager way.

Achilles had chosen a chariot race, and so the training ground had been duly programmed as such. Lines of seats ran around the oval-shaped arena, providing perfect vision from all angles.

It was agreed that three laps would decide the winner. As with all challenges, both Servants were prepared by a team of the other’s choosing, to ensure fair play. For Achilles, this was Iskandar, while for Alexander, it was Chiron.

“Are you sure about this, child? Achilles will not look down on you if you withdraw,” the centaur asked as he buckled Alexander into the chariot. Weights had been laid into the edge of the chariot to both balance him out and act as a handicap.

“I’m sure. I’m going to win,” he stated.

His face was full of determination, and Chiron couldn’t help but laugh.

“I see why they say you are his soul reborn. Very well, but don’t think he will go easy on you.”

“I wouldn’t want him to,” Alexander said, grinning. “Besides, _I_ won’t go easy on him, either. Bucephalus will make sure we win, won’t you?”

The horse tossed his head and whinnied loudly, stamping .

Alexander’s grin widened until it threatened to split his face in two. “See? He knows he’s the best. The best horse in the world, aren’t you?”

The length of the reins didn’t allow him to reach to pat the horse’s neck, but Chiron lay a hand against his flank, soothing him.

Alexander shot a sly glance at Chiron, grin turning smooth. “Hey, teacher, could _you_ pull a chariot?” he asked cheekily.

Chiron smiled endearingly at him. “You know, Achilles asked the same question when he was your age.”

The lack of answer didn’t deter the boy. “And? What did you tell him?”

“That maybe if he trained hard enough, I’d show him one day.”

“Hmm. So, if I win, will you show me?”

Chiron shook his head, laughing. “Perhaps. I never did end up showing Achilles. If you win, maybe.”

Alexander nodded fiercely. “Then I’ll just have to win, won’t I?”

He stood forward on the chariot, holding the reins loosely as he faced out to the arena.

Across the arena, Iskandar was doing the same for Achilles.

“Don’t humour him because he’s young,” he said. “I truly thought myself invincible at that age.”

“As did we all,” Achilles replied. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s a fair race. For what its worth, Bucephalus is as good a match for Xanthos and Balios as any I’ve seen. He’s a fine horse.”

“That he is,” Iskandar agreed. “I chose him myself, you know. Even my father couldn’t handle him. I bet him I could tame him, and won. He saw me through my first campaign, and all those that came after.”

Achilles looked at him approvingly. “You’ll have tell me that tale some time,” he said.

“It’s a deal. Now, go and race, _Aristos Achaion_.”

Achilles nodded. “Hyah!”

The chariot pulled forward, and into the arena.

As per tradition, they would begin in the middle of the arena, so that neither had an advantage.

Achilles looked over to Alexander as they drew up on the chalked outlines.

“Are you ready, little prince?”

“Yes. I will beat you this day, Achilles Peliades.”

Achilles nodded approvingly. “We shall see. Good luck, Alexander.”

Alexander nodded back, then faced forward, a frown of concentration already in place.

“Ready…go!” DaVinci’s voice called from above, and they were off.

Bucephalus and Xanthos both pulled at the reins, knowing their master’s wishes even before it was given.

The first lap was close. Alexander had perfect form, that Achilles could tell, letting him gain the advantage in order to study him.

He had clearly been trained in both riding and chariots from an early age, perhaps even earlier than Achilles himself.

Of course, he had not been required to learn the divine arts, as Achilles had. Though Alexander’s mother had been a practitioner herself, Alexander had lost interest in it as he grew, preferring war to magic as he had been given command.

Though, at this age, he might still have had the skill of it. Something in the way he stood on the wicker floor of the chariot, braid flying out behind him, said that he still believed in the immortality of youth, not yet jaded by the campaigns he had yet to fight in.

This boy was truly the legend he would one day grow into. With that, Achilles renewed his efforts, soon catching up.

They drew neck-and-neck as they reached the finish line for the first time, barely acknowledging as they flew past into the second lap.

This was closer. Bucephalus and Xanthos were taunting each other now, as committed to racing as their masters. Their hooves pounded against the sand, powerful legs working smoothly and sending up great clouds of dust behind them.

Neither Servant let it phase them, knowing just how to narrow their eyes to reduce the sting while keeping visibility.

Alexander adjusted his stance and hold unthinkingly, a miniature professional with more calm than many men twice his size and age.

He made headway again, and spared a minute glance towards Achilles, the thrill of the race shining in his eyes.

Achilles felt a fire light up in him. It had been too long since he allowed himself to truly get lost in the feeling of a challenge, and he gave himself over to it, feeling the joy of his childhood rising, taking him back centuries to his own childhood, on the slopes of Mount Pelion.

He stamped down the fierce longing that rose in him in the empty space at the back of the chariot, of the man who ought to be riding beside him. Those were not thoughts for now.

“Ride, Xanthos! Hyah!”

The horse obeyed his command, racing forwards until they were once again neck-and-neck. Once again, the finish line raced past. Distantly, he heard DaVinci’s announcement that this was the final lap.

Everything narrowed in his mind to the view ahead of him.

 _Sight_. The track laid out, chalk lines now scuffed, though still visible.

 _Sound._ Xanthos’ hooves, the rattling of the chariot, the cheering of the crowd.

 _Smell_. Leather and armour, metal and wood, sweat and salt mixing with the dust and clinging to his skin.

 _Touch._ The reins in his hand, the chariot beneath his feet, the hot air whipping around his face.

 _Taste_. The thrill of the challenge, the excitement of the race. Victory.

They drew as close as a breath, almost touching for a handful of lengths, until Achilles thought for a moment they were going to cross the line like that.

Alexander grinned wildly at him, in sheer childish joy, and time seemed to slow to a heartbeat. There was something unbridled in him, and it was as though Achilles was looking at his own face as a child, free of all worries and utterly convinced of his glory.

Achilles was frozen, and Alexander took the advantage, breaking free and wheeling away as Bucephalus galloped forward, putting on a monstrous burst of speed and flying past the line to the sound of the crowd erupting in cheers.

Achilles stood as Xanthos slowly came to a halt, making almost a full lap before stopping, flank heaving as he breathed heavily. A look across the track showed Bucephalus doing the same, with Iskandar running out to untie Alexander and congratulate him on his win.

He barely felt as Chiron began to do the same to him, until the weight of the buckles fell away, almost making him stagger.

He managed to stand tall, stepping down from the chariot and onto solid ground, then threw his head back to stare at the sky, grinning wildly for a reason he couldn’t put a name to.

Chiron handed him a flask of water, and he drank greedily, then poured the rest over his head.

“That was truly something,” he said. “The boy is Gods-blessed, no doubt about that.”

“Well, I never thought I’d hear you of all people say that,” his teacher commented. “You didn’t let him win, did you?”

Achilles shook his head. “He has a skill with the reins like I’ve never seen. Iskandar said he chose and trained the horse himself. There must have been a God’s hand in that matching. Truly, I’ve never seen a bond like it. It’s like they knew each other’s thoughts.”

Chiron nodded. “I’ve known it happen. You never had need of it, being God-born.”

“And I doubt my mother would have been happy had I shown affinity to a horse, or any land-born creature,” Achilles said, smiling wryly.

“Well, perhaps not. She never was very fond of me, after all,” Chiron answered.

Achilles gave him a shocked stare, then burst out laughing.

A few yards away, Alexander had stepped down from the chariot, and was still grinning widely, reaching up to grab at Iskandar’s hand ruffling his hair.

Like that, they looked like father and son, and it was almost impossible to see how the boy grew up into the man. Achilles had noted the resemblance when he was summoned to Chaldea, and had been met with such a sad look on Iskandar’s face that he had never raised the topic again.

It was the look of a man grieving what never was. Achilles knew what grief that deep felt like, and knew not to speak of it.

Iskandar turned around at that moment, and lowered his hand, placing it instead on the boy’s back, pushing him forward gently.

Alexander did as instructed, and walked over to Achilles, before holding a hand out.

“Thank you very much for racing with me. You rode very well.”

Achilles took the offered hand and shook it. “The victory is yours, but it was a pleasure to race with you. You rode like a natural. I was just telling Chiron that I would think you had the skill of the Gods themselves, you and he seem so in tune.” He nodded towards Bucephalus, where both horses were being wiped down.

Alexander lit up at the praise, grinning with glee. “Thank you! Does this mean I get to be _Aristos Achaion_ now?” he added cheekily.

“Careful, little prince,” Achilles said, reaching out and ruffling his hair. “Perhaps in a thousand or so years, when I am long forgotten.”

Alexander shook his head fiercely. “You could _never_ be forgotten!” he said hotly.

Achilles’ smile turned sad. “We are all forgotten in time, little one.”

“That’s enough, Achilles. Let the boy bask in his victory. It’s a rare accolade for him, at his age.”  
Achilles turned to see Chiron, arms crossed and looking at him knowingly.

“Well said. Go and wash that dirt off, boy, then come and find us. You can tell all of Chaldea about it once you’re clean.”

“Yes, father!”

Alexander ran off before he could realise the unintentional slip, but Iskandar was left stunned for a moment, shocked into silence.

After a long moment, he shook his head.

“It’s happened before,” he said quietly in response to the men’s awkward silence. “I bear more resemblance to him than I thought, it seems.”

“Now is not the time for unhappy thoughts,” Achilles said, breaking the tension. “Let the boy cheer. I’m not ashamed to lose, just this once.”

Iskandar attempted a smile. “Would you consider a rematch some time?” he asked.

“Don’t push your luck, King of Conquerors,” Achilles shot back, grinning.

Iskandar shrugged, laughing heartily. “It was worth a try,” he said. “Now, let us drink and talk and regale the crowd with stories of our prowess!”

“Lead the way, friend.”

Later, the cafeteria was full of chatter and noise as Alexander told anyone who would listen that he won, over and over. The rest of the Servants humoured him, even as it started to become rather wearing.

Eventually, though, even he grew tired, his words starting to become punctuated with yawns. At a sharp look from Waver, who was used to dealing with overbearing children (his students were far too old not to know better, but that didn’t often stop them), Iskandar gently lifted him up and slung him over his shoulder, cheerfully ignoring the boy’s token protests.

He carried him through the winding corridors of Chaldea until he reached the boy’s room, a few away from his own.

“I’m not tired,” Alexander protested again.

“Yes, you are,” Iskandar said. “You did well, and now you are going to sleep and dream of your victory.”

Whatever the boy was going to refute with was lost as he opened his mouth and yawned widely.

With that, he seemed to realise there was no point in resisting any longer, and dutifully slipped between the sheets.

“I won against _Achilles_ ,” he repeated one last time. “Today was a good day.”

“Yes, it was,” Iskandar murmured.

Alexander stretched his limbs with childish grace, making himself comfortable. His eyes slipped close as he sighed happily, worn out with both exertion and excitement.

“Are you proud of me, father?” he mumbled, words slipping out on the edge of sleep.

“More than life,” Iskandar answered. “You are my life, Alexander.”

He couldn’t tell if Alexander was awake enough to hear it, but a soft smile stretched across his face as his breathing deepened.

Iskandar stood there watching him for a long time before eventually turning out the light and slipping silently out of the room.

History could be so cruel.

* * *

Across Chaldea, similar thoughts ran through Achilles mind. Iskandar rejoined him at the table, where Achilles was nursing a mug of ale, staring into it as though the answers to the universe lay within.

He looked up when Iskandar took a seat across from him.

“Did you put him to bed?” he asked.

Iskandar nodded. “Asleep, and no doubt dreaming of running with the Gods,” he answered.

Achilles nodded in answer, looking down at his mug again.

“What is it like, to be a parent?” he wondered aloud.

Iskandar blinked in surprise. Next to Achilles, Chiron frowned, shaking his head at Iskandar. He had reverted to human form as he always did while inside, and sat with his own mug.

“It is everything,” Iskandar said eventually. “Duty, and responsibility, the greatest pain and the greatest joy a man can have.”

Achilles took this in silence. “I never knew my son,” he said. “His mother took him, just as mine took me. I always wondered, when I saw fathers happy with their sons, what it was like to love your child.”

“There are many other forms of love,” Chiron said. “You have that in common, too.”

Achilles looked up at that, seeing Iskandar looking away.

“But this is not a time to dwell on the dead. They wait for us in the afterlife, and one day, when we are no longer needed as Servants, we will join them.”

Achilles gave Chiron a sad smile. “You have a great way with words, teacher,” he said softly. “Who knows, perhaps they drink together, sharing tales of us.”

“Telling each other of our prowess, I hope,” Iskandar said.

Achilles gave him a startled look, then laughed. “Of our idiocy, too, I imagine. I hope Hephaestion is kinder to you than Patroclus will be of me. He was the only one who dared tell me what a fool I was.”

“I’m sure there were times you needed it,” Iskandar said.

“Of course,” Achilles answered. “We are all fools in battle.”

“Will you two stop being so morbid,” a new voice cut in.

Both men looked up to see Waver glaring at them. “You do realise you both have a near wealth of books written about you two? You’re just about the most famous Greeks in history.”

“Macedonian,” Iskandar said. Waver waved a dismissive hand at him. “Shut up. Don’t be pedantic. You know what I mean. You conquered most of the known world at the time, don’t quibble geography with me. And as for you,” he turned to Achilles. “You’re one of the most famous heroes of all time, in case you didn’t know.”

“I do know,” Achilles said.

“Then you could try smiling a bit more,” Waver shot back. “No one likes being beaten by a kid, but at least you did it fairly, and he clearly still worships you. Not everyone is so lucky.”

He shot a pointed look across the room, and Achilles followed his gaze to where the Knights gathered. Mordred’s face was flushed with alcohol, and was glaring at Arturia, who stared back coolly. Arthur sat beside her, looking very much as if he didn’t want to be anywhere near either of them. The rest of the Knights alternated between bored and worried, though none of them seemed willing to stop them.

Merlin, of course, was watching them with an amused smile. As if noticing the eyes on him, he turned to them and grinned, smile stretching until his eyes closed. It looked faintly menacing, and Achilles turned back to the table with a faint shudder.

“Point taken,” he murmured.

“There will be other battles, and other challenges, before we wake in Elysia. Let’s enjoy our time here, until then,” Chiron said.

“Well said.”

Both men drank to that, talk of the past turning naturally to more pleasant remembrance. One day, as Chiron said, they would meet again, with many more tales to tell.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer/history notes for FGO peeps: While Achilles lived until his son Neoptolemus was a teenager, Iskandar died several months before Alexander IV was born, so I'm basically imagining what he would be like if history had gone differently. TSOA and TAT explain it all so much better than I ever could, so if you want to know where I got their characterisations from, go check them out. You won't be disappointed.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I'd love to know what you think!


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